


the mirror never lies

by josiebelladonna, nirvhannahcornell (josiebelladonna)



Series: at land's end [1]
Category: Anthrax (US Band), Bandom, Metallica
Genre: Art, Body Dysmorphic Disorder, Body Dysphoria, Body Image, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Cutting, Digital Art, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, Healing, Illustrations, Knives, LIT FIC, Mirroring each other, Mirrors, Pining, Razors, Self-Acceptance, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sharp Objects, Starvation, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, healing on the author's part, literary fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 19,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24392116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/josiebelladonna/pseuds/josiebelladonna, https://archiveofourown.org/users/josiebelladonna/pseuds/nirvhannahcornell
Summary: Lars is often ridiculed for his round face and obsession with all the good in life, but therein lies a reason. It comes to fruition especially once he forms a friendship with Anthrax's new singer while on tour.Surely, there must be some common ground here.*also includes accompanying digital drawings to give another nuance to the narrative
Series: at land's end [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1842376
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	1. where it all began (lars' point of view)

**Author's Note:**

> This is like a love letter following in the footsteps of DaveighMustaine's Stay - she wrote that beauty in honor of her grandmother, whom she never got to say good-bye to.  
> *edit 8/2/20: long story short, she and i started drifting apart and... I don't know what happened. next thing i know, i'm blocked and she's acting like i'm the one who did something bad all because I made a joke that maybe have been in poor taste, but i'll own up to it, though.  
> *sigh* oh, well. all I'm going to say is this fic hits so differently now after what happened between me and her.
> 
> Named for the Butcher Babies song ❤️  
> I lost my paternal grandpa in 2006 to brain cancer: he went while I was still at school, too. Like I had just got off the bus and walked in through the door when my mom greeted me with tears in her eyes and said he was gone. I lost my maternal grandmother (my grandma) to Alzheimer's in 2016, a month before my sister-in-law (my brother's wife) was killed in a car accident. My grandma's disease came suddenly—my third relative with it, too; my other grandmother died from it in 2017, and my paternal great-grandpa (who was Native American, by the way) had it for twenty years before it finally killed him—and my sister-in-law couldn't stand me, especially after she and my brother got married. I never got to say good-bye to my grandparents, either, nor did I have the time to smooth things over with my sister-in-law. My brother and I have all but drifted apart, too.
> 
> After my grandpa died, I began cutting. It wasn't like with full-on razor blades or anything big and heavy like that, but I just remember taking the edges of pages of books and running them over my fingers to make paper cuts. That little prick of pain was enough to make me feel something, even if it was momentary. But I stopped after a bit because I didn't like doing that to myself; I was in middle school, too, so imagine the fear running through my mind then. I started doing it again after my parents split in 2011, and then I did it again after Chris passed. I haven't self-harmed since mid-summer 2017.
> 
> The idea for this fic literally came to me in a dream, as I saw Joey and Lars continuously looking into a mirror and examining themselves, kind of like how I did when I was in the throes of dysmorphia and developing anorexia. Another part I recall is Joey offering to take Lars home.
> 
> This is all about body image and insecurity, all about hating yourself and trying to be perfect and wondering how and when you're going to accept yourself and heal your wounds, metaphorical and otherwise.  
> This is also for anyone who has dealt with monumental loss and having no way to cope  
> -anybody who's been body-shamed and rejected for the way you look  
> -anybody who's felt less than, or undesirable because they don't fit into idealism or they feel like they're not good enough for somebody  
> -anyone who, like me, has dealt with the horrors of disordered eating and taken something sharp to your skin in the wake of loss.  
> Might seem like an odd combination, but for me, it goes hand-in-hand. Loss equals rejection and loneliness equals finding some way to cope, even if it's feeling pain.  
> However: don't read if you're easily triggered as this fic contains gratuitous mentions of body image and dysmorphia, cutting, self harm, and intentional starving. Not so much drugs and alcohol, although they are kind of mentioned because they often manifest as self-abuse: it's more about internal conflict and wanting to inflict violence upon yourself.
> 
> None of this is in fact real, and I own nothing, and even if I did... baby, you know I would enjoy every second of it. Only writing because I fucking love Joey and Lars and this fic came to me in a dream.
> 
> Oh. And one other thing:  
> If you, or if you know someone with the issue of self harm, text HOME to 741741 if you live in the US or Canada (in the UK, it's 85258; Ireland, it's 086 1800 280)  
> Eating disorders, call this number: (800) 931-2237  
> And there's no direct number, but to contact Anxiety and Depression Association of America, go to their website: adaa.org
> 
> And in fact, if someone is so much as dealing with low self-image, don't ever be afraid to reach out to them. Encourage them for better habits. Empathize with them. Be their friend. I was pretty much alone with my struggles so... they probably need that outer boost.
> 
> xoxo, nirvhannah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"The window burns to light the way back home.  
>  A light that warms no matter where they've gone;  
> they're off to find the hero of the day.  
> But what if they should fall by someone's wicked way?"_  
> -"Until It Sleeps", Metallica

It is in fact good to be back here in Europe, to return after being over in the United States for a few years. It has only been a few years after having emigrated to New York and then out to Los Angeles for my training sessions, but even stepping on the ground in Cardiff is enough to let me take a strong whiff of the air around us. A few years can fly but also feel so long at the same time. An eternity on my end.

How I have missed the British Isles!

There are often times where I would swing my tennis racket about the court and I wanted a bit of that luxurious English breakfast. The one with all of the trimmings, all of the sauce on the toast and hash browns, all of it. Enough calories and good fats to spike the charts of American readings.

But then alas, there stands Copenhagen: behold! We are going to my home. I'm going home. I'm going home and here are the guys with me.

I don't know if it's the sight of Anthrax right behind us, or the sight of an ad up on the wall of a man with the most chiseled looks one could achieve, but the thought of seeing all of my friends again in Copenhagen must come with a price.

Too many times in Danish school, I would find myself under the realm of the leering gazes of most of the kids. Sure, I had my friends then, but we were outnumbered.

The words came with a price. Their giggles coupled with their stares. It seared right through me.

Words hurt. One can dismiss it with the whole chant of sticks and stones, but the truth of the matter is one never forgets the words, especially when followed with laughter. One never forgets those words when they are thrown out ad infinitum, every day, without question and without warning so all one can do is stand there and stare and wonder what the hell just happened.

Sometimes once is enough. Sometimes all it takes for the girl you like to tell you that she doesn't want to be seen with the boy whom everyone thinks is a girl. She doesn't want to be seen with the boy with the fat round face. It is because of that I often have difficulty looking at my own reflection: I think of Helga and the way she spoke to me that morning in fourth year Danish school. I had a crush on her and she took my heart and tore it into two.

If there is one issue I must point out about James, it is the fact I do not feel as though I can speak to him about anything that went down in the past on my end. Sometimes I will rouse a reaction out of Kirk but James and Cliff seem to be forming a league of their own. Two guys without mention or respect for the other side of life, the soft interior of our minds and bodies. Two guys who, I will do absolutely anything for, but they make no mistake that they would rather hide inside of themselves at the mention of softness. James gave me this damn scar over my left eye, for God’s sake.

I adjust the strap of my overnight bag when Scott's big Queens accent catches my ear. I turn my head to find them bringing up the rear, right behind Kirk and myself. Even in the late September rain, they're rocking their colorful shorts in junction with their little jackets.

Sometimes I wish I could help them some more. These five guys from New York who are oft treated as the strange ones when taken in junction with us, Megadeth, and Slayer. Five guys all of whom struggle with their money and with promoting themselves and their otherwise badass music. But we are in fact family no matter what happens. Scott and Frankie let James and I stay with them when we were trying to get our shit together as a band. We related with them and their trying to compile themselves together as a band—that was back when Neil sang for them, too.

I'm looking on at their singer, Joey. He's the extra svelte one wrapped up in that little black leather jacket, the one with the disheveled long black curls behind his head and that funny little crown of them atop his head, like he's a prince or something.

I will never forget the first time I watched him perform in L'Amours back in New York City. Kirk told me that our friends from Anthrax had found a new singer following Neil and Lilker's departures and thus we went to go see them perform when we arrived there for a small show.

His voice was too big for that room. The way it soared and seared throughout every corner of the room: I feel the chills returning to my arms and my spine upon thinking about it.

He stood there on the stage with the microphone up to his dark lips and the guys going forth right behind him all the while, but that man sang as though it was his last night on Earth. His curls sprawled down one side of his face but he didn't seem to care. It was the very second the first note flew out of his mouth that he was their man—their producer Carl even agreed with me on that!

I can tell he's Indian from the stoic look upon his face and within those deep brown eyes. He just looks like he's meant to be a part of them, like he belongs with them, and yet... something is off.

I cannot explain it. Maybe it's the dark skin, maybe it's the grim look plastered on his face, but there is something about seeing him with Scott, Frank, Dan, and Charlie that gives me an odd feeling. Perhaps there is something more to him.

This will in fact be a long tour—I shall have to find the time to speak with him and make him feel a little more comfortable with all of us here. Get to better know the man with the astounding voice.


	2. far from home (joey's point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"So here you are in your small little world,  
>  kept up like a little precious virgin girl.  
> To hear 'bout your grace and your silly face  
> wrapped up like a knot in a ball of shoelace.  
> And everytime I talk to you,  
> it sounds like you're caught in a psychological flu."_  
> -"Skinny", Filter

Let's see, this is my first tour of Europe—it's kinda weird being here and not knowing a soul. No matter if they're speaking English or French or German, it all feels so alien.

We're just five guys who are far from home, clear across the Atlantic. On the flight en route to Great Britain, I kept wanting a rear view mirror right next to Frankie and me so we could watch New York City drift back in the cloud bank and with the curvature of the earth.

Someone, I think it was Scott who said this to me, that Lars came to the United States with that very prospect behind him. And he went further than us, out to California. That little Danish kid with that round moonlike face.

Danish… Danishes? I'm hungry.

Another really weird thing about this continent is the light in the sky. Since it's September, and winter is coming for us all here, the sun is setting sooner and the sky here is dark as anything in existence. When we were in Cardiff, I stood before the rail of the porch outside of our hotel room with my hands in the pockets of my jeans, and I just stood there to feel the breeze run through my hair. Dan told me my hair, in particular the curls atop my head blended in with the darkness so I looked like a ghost there on the porch.

I hadn't eaten anything at that point of him saying that, either. I looked at myself in the mirror afterwards to find my face was in fact kinda pale. Pale enough to make my brown eyes stick out like big black holes.

I have this nose on my face, too. This beak of a nose which my dad describes as a “true Roman”, except we're from around the Tuscan area and not Rome. When I was getting older and things were changing with me, my aunt told me I look distinguished with it. A true Italian boy fused with the earth of the Iroquois.

A true Italian boy with two other Italian guys, two Jewish guys, a Danish guy, a Filipino guy, and two white guys. Thus, the world of metal!

I do in fact love this whole mindset that anyone and everyone can be a part of the world of metal. I really do, it makes me feel like I'm a part of something greater than myself, and with my voice working for the other four guys behind me, we can stand out from the rest.

But every so often I'll find an offhand sign or signal around me that tells me otherwise.

When we toured in Wales, I found myself watching a couple of girls on the sidewalk. The five of us were across the street from them, and I don't think Frankie paid any attention to the blonde—he likes blondes, too. At least, that's what I'm told.

The brunette was cute: she kind of looked like me with her big brown eyes and her wavy dark hair down to her waist. She wore this frilly low cut blouse with a neckline lined with white lace, just a total girl. She looked at me, for something like a minute. I was bit of a mess, too: my hair was still wet from my shower and I neglected to brush it. Nothin' fancy in the wardrobe department, either, just my jacket and my jeans and my Chucks.

But I felt it. She was interested. But then I flashed her a grin and a nod of the head, kinda being Mr. Sexy Italian American, and that look of interest turned into a look of disgust. She even dropped her gaze to my ankles and scanned me like she looked on at the grotesque before she and her friend sauntered away.

Yeah, that sucked. She was cute, too!

Two days ago, we had our stop in London, and I ran into her in a pub. She had on these big ass hoop earrings about the size of a tangerine and her black hair smelled like strawberries—alright, I'm getting really hungry thinking about this now. If no one's going to give me fruit while I'm sitting here and waiting for dinner, I might have to get up and find some for myself.

Anyway, Scott, Frankie, and I bellied up to stools before the bar and she just so happened to be right there right next to me. She gasped when she saw me—it wasn't like I was creepin' on her, though. But she showed a nervous smile at me.

“How ya doin'?” I greeted her; I was still kind of a mess from the few days before.

“I am good, thank you,” she said—that Welsh accent hit me like a truck.

“I'm Joey—would it be alright if I get ya a drink?”

“I would like that very much, thank you,” she replied, “I'm Jessica. Everyone calls me Jessie.”

“The amazing Jessie!” I declared as Frankie started breaking peanut shells right next to me.

“I like your accent—American, right?”

“Upstate New York. Kinda misunderstood and out of the way like beautiful Wales and the cute brunette from there.” That got a giggle out of her. She was about to say something when the big hulk of a bartender at the end of the bar gestured these two big fat fingers at the four of us.

“I'll get to you guys in a second,” he told us in a snippy tone, and then she turned to me and her. “Oi, Jessica! Don't hang out with that loser, will ya?”

That's what the bartender said.

I soon found out thereafter that that bartender was her boyfriend.

She not only had a guy in her life but he called me a loser and she bought into it with her sliding away from me with an uncomfortable look on her face.

You know, I look at a guy like John Bush and I overhear Scott and Charlie talking about him in a good light, to which I have no problem with, but there's this nagging feeling inside of me. John's got that deep full voice and I have this lightweight tenor choir boy thing going like my hero Steve Perry.

I might not look it, but there's a part of me that wishes I could sing like him.

He's bigger than me, too. I don't want to feel like this towards a guy I met like just the other day. I don't want to feel like this towards anyone, if I'm honest. It's not good. But it's there, like I feel it within me. There's no denying it.

I mean, look at me: I'm this skinny guy from upstate New York, from the shore of the lake—I might as well as be a water creature. I debate between brushing my hair and not even bothering because it's only going to get messy again. I literally lost count how many times I've been told that I'm too skinny. God... I've been trying to put on weight since I was a prepubescent teen with a hockey stick on my back, and it just doesn't do shit for me. Even with these sinewy muscles on my arms and on my thighs, I couldn't do it if it killed me.

I couldn't do it if it killed me, even as I'm looking on at this buffet, this Swedish smorgasbord before me. All the Swedish meatballs and those “princess cakes” as Lars called them. It all looks so good and decadent.

But I'm standing there contemplating grabbing a plate and hearing that over and over again in my memory is leaving a pit in my stomach.

This is a terrible idea, but I won't eat tonight. I don't think I could, either. Hearing and reminiscing on all of that pithy chit chat has made me lose my appetite.

I'm supposed to be welcome here. I'm supposed to be here. I keep telling myself that, too: “Joe, you're supposed to be here, you idiot. Knock this shit off or it could land you in a bad place.”

But words hurt. Words cut through you like a sharp knife, especially when you don't know when it's coming or if it'll hit you hard enough. I've lost a couple of teeth from getting smacked in the face with a hockey puck and I've gotten cuts on my legs from the blades on my skates and falling on ice, but words dig under the skin.

It doesn't look like Lars is eating, either. He's just standing there in Metallica's corner with his glass in his hand.

And nothing else.


	3. that night in sweden (lars' point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Lay down, mark the grave  
>  where the searchlights find us drinking by the mausoleum door  
> and they found you on the bathroom floor."_  
> -"Cemetery Drive", My Chemical Romance

Cliff and I had been drifting apart from one another for some time now. I always made the effort to speak to him whenever I found the chance during this stint of the tour in particular because we were headed to my home. But he always vouched closer to James than towards me. In fact, there was a point in which we were headed into Scandinavia when I finally caught Cliff in a moment alone after he had climbed out of the shower one morning. I was ready to rekindle this flame, this flame that had been fanned by things I wish I could control.

He greeted me with that big infectious smile and joyous laugh and that was when I knew I had made the right decision. That smile and that laugh etched into my memory until the day I drop dead myself.

As part of bringing things back, I offered to do stuff for him. I mean, we relocated from the gutters of LA to San Francisco for him.

We started with the smorgasbord of breakfast together and I offered him a bit of princess cake—the last one, no less. Poor Anthrax barely had anything to eat for themselves: if there were more cakes, I'd give up to them as well. And Metal Church ran off to another smorgasbord for their brunch.

Cliff offered me a beer on the bus and I returned the favor with that well loved tape of _Blazing Saddles_. I was in an excellent mood that evening, and I was eager to show the northern lights and everything to them. I knew it would be the absolute best part of the tour and I was going to relish every second we proceeded to roam about the streets of Copenhagen. I was finally going to show off my city to my American friends, my home town, my history even with all the pained trimmings and old scars on my sky.

I was even willing to teach them some basic Danish phrases. I wanted them to feel home in a place I called home, even no matter how many caveats came with it.

I recall falling asleep at around midnight, about an hour after we drew cards as to who would sleep where in that bus. He drew the short one and thus he took the top bunk, the one with the tiny narrow window about the width of my hand. But he assured me it was going to be a good ride because he could look out to the darkness and see the northern lights.

In fact they did come in right around the time I fell asleep.

The last thing I recall was seeing those lacy veils of bright neon green juxtaposed against the black canopy outside of the window. That bright green cradling me with the bundle of warm blankets in my bunk as I drifted off.

It was weird. I thought it was a dream to feel the bus tipping sideways. Hearing the tires scream as if their throats were being slit. Feeling the whole cumbersome bus fall away with a dizzy sensation around me. I thought something hit me in the head but it turned out a piece of plexiglas missed slicing right through my temple by about an inch.

Seeing death herself standing right over me with her scythe.

I crawled out of that bus first. I helped James and Kirk out through that busted window.

I asked “where's Cliff?”

And when no one answered, the unforgiving northern darkness filled me up like bat venom.

If only we had a little more time together.

If only we had more.

And that time was all there was.

The snow is cold underneath my ass and my feet, but it's the least of my problems at the moment. I'm watching my best friends, my brothers James and Kirk, the guys who had been my pillars of strength in the past five years, completely lose their shit over all of this. James' face is twisted in rage over a stretch of black ice. Kirk is off to the side, off in the total darkness somewhere speaking to Anthrax to see if they're alright as well—I suppose their van went off the road right in front of us.

Even from here I can hear the tears in his voice. I can hear Scott and Charlie saying things, but I cannot discern what they are in fact saying.

The snow is leaving me numb, so numb in fact that it aches. Cold and silent, like the corpse of my brother before me.

I want to cry, but alas, I cannot. My eyes are as dry as bone. I just have my elbows rested upon my knees. All I have is the silence of death around me. Death does not make a sound, and neither does pain. I am silent along with Cliff here.

I cannot move my feet or my legs, but I don't really care if I am honest. I just want Cliff back. 

I want my brother back.


	4. that night in sweden (joey's point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Imagine pageant  
>  in my head the flesh seems thicker.  
> Sandpaper tears corrode the film  
> and I need you now somehow."_  
> -"Ana's Song (Open Fire)", Silverchair

When I was a rascal growing up in upstate New York, I legit lost count how many times my aunt would refer to me as “sassy”, and I am, too. I am Mr. Sassafras… among other things. And I always wondered what she meant by that, too, like maybe I'm a saucy boy underneath this dark exterior and I need my ass slapped or something. I dunno.

Maybe Jessica saw that. Maybe it's more apparent to me than I had originally believed.

Who the hell knows.

But God, she was so adorable, though. It was like looking at myself, looking into my own eyes in a mirror or the reflection in Lake Ontario. I've been told my accent could knock a chick out but that one… I would kiss that Welsh accent if I could.

So, we're in this cramped little van here courtesy of the guys from Nuclear Assault and Metal Church. I know the each of us would be more than happy to trek down the spine of Scandinavia in a bus like Metallica, but it's better than being out in the cold.

I hadn't eaten much in the past few days because of the sheer lack of food around us and also because I just don't feel like it. I'm not feeling up for it. That girl in Wales used me not once but twice. That's just how it's going to be and how it always will be for me. Whatever.

It's starting to hurt a bit, even with my hands placed on my belly—I'm looking down at myself, at my slender legs and my even slimmer waist and wondering if anything good will come out of this. Even with as skinny as I am, I can't help but feel like there's too much here. I came on too strong for her—it's all my fault and I should've known.

Too much. Just too much. Just too fuckin' much.

Too much flesh here. Maybe if I quit eating altogether, I won't be as much. I won't be so damn sassy. If that's what's going to repel girls from me, alright. I'll do something about it.

I'll do something about it even if it means feeling uncomfortable for a time. I'll adjust. I'll get by.

But _God_ , those Swedish meatballs back at the hotel smelled so good. They looked so smooth and lush. I should've eaten a bunch of 'em before we left. A bunch of those with a bunch of those princess cakes.

Mr. Sassy, Mr. Hockey Player, always hungry.

Oh well.

Just cuddle up here behind the passenger seat nestled right in between Frankie and Danny with my arms folded over my stomach to ease the cavernous feeling within me and go the fuck to sleep. I still have my boots on even upon falling asleep. I'm thinking of taking off my jacket because it's kinda warm back here, but—

…

…

…

Huh wha? Fuck! FUCK!

Oh, fuck—what the hell was that? What happened?

It's totally dark. We're stopped on the side of the road. Everything is loud. Someone broke a window?

Frankie says something to me and he sounds like he's down a sewer pipe.

“Joey? Joey? Joey, are you alright?” His voice is all echo-y.

“Joey?” My eyes adjust and his face comes into shape.

“Frankie—” I say to him and he sighs with relief. I can see the mortified look on his face even in the darkness. I hear Charlie breathing hard. I rub my eyes to make sure I'm not dreaming. It's dark and loud in here. I look over at Danny and he's running his fingers through his feathery hair.

The five of us climb out of the back of the van and into the bitter cold. For a moment, I sorta forgot where we were, and then I look up to the sky and I see the northern lights.

Neon green and dead silent.

Our driver says we hit a patch of ice and to keep ourselves from rolling over we hydroplaned off into a ditch: yeah, Danny and I both made the mistake of stepping into the snow bank here. I might be wearing boots but they're not the best kinda boots to be runnin' around in snow, though.

But even as I'm shaking off the snow, something catches my eye. I look up to find Scott, Charlie, and Frankie staring down the road behind us. I follow their gaze to the sight of Metallica's big bus laying on the other side of the road, laying there on its side.

I've got a bad feeling about this, especially with James running like his ass is on fire into the darkness. What is he doing?

Oh, wait, here comes Kirk.

“Wait a minute, man, slow down,” Scott tells him. “Back up, back up—”

There's a pit in my stomach.

“Wait, where's Lars?” Charlie asks him.

I didn't hear him, but I did hear Danny say “call 911.”

I'm stunned. Speechless.

I was just getting to know Metallica, too.

I look over at Frankie as he's falling to the ground on his knees with his hands up to his mouth. Scott's got his hands upon his head. Charlie has a blank look on his face.

It's everything I need to know.

Kirk is literally crying—crying actual tears as he and Danny are calling the medics. I've got to do something.

I just have the aurora borealis overhead and the broken hazard lights guiding my way across the pavement. I round the back end of the bus to find Lars sitting there in the snow bank with no pants on. There's something in front of him—

Oh, shit.

No.

God damn.

Oh. OH.

I clasp a hand to my mouth. I want to puke but there's nothing in me, though. Lars turns his head towards me.

“Hey,” he says to me in a soft voice. I look at his green eyes, lit up by the hazard lights of the bus, but there's no life to them. I lower my hand. I don't know what to say to him, except for, “are—are you alright?”

He doesn't reply. I look over my shoulder. No one coming our way.

I nibble on my bottom lip. He's sitting there by himself. I've come this far, I have to do more than this.

The sight of Cliff's lifeless legs from underneath the bus is making my stomach writhe, but I take my seat there in the snow right next to Lars.

So he's not alone. Just so he's not lonely. Just so I'm not lonely, either.

I have my arms around my waist and he looks over at me, still with that blank expression on his face.

“How about you, are you alright?”

“Really hungry,” I confess.

“I wish I could help you guys. I really do.” His voice is broken and distant. I can very easily say he's going to get frostbite from sitting there in the snow, but the blank look on his face tells a different story.

“Well—I just haven't been eating,” I admit to him.

“Why is that?” he asks me in a low voice.

“I'd rather starve than let my band mates go hungry.” I'm totally bullshitting that, but there is in fact some truth to it. I want to belong here with them, and I'd rather let myself go to waste than see them fall flat on their fucking faces.

The blinking hazard light to my left is enough to let me look into those eyes and the sympathetic look on his face.

The hunger in my stomach is starting to eat at me, perhaps more so than the snow underneath me. It's cold out here, colder than anything I had ever felt in my life—and when we were in California last summer, I was freezing my ass off. California in the summertime!

I hear Frankie say something about not getting the chance to say goodbye to Cliff and all I can think is...

dude, nobody knew this would happen.


	5. lars and joey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not a written chapter but a digital drawing to emphasize the mood of that last scene 😘😘😘
> 
> inspired by [this painting](https://psrj.tumblr.com/post/619125157905203200)


	6. the small mirror (lars' point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *blood and injury warning*
> 
>  _"What is it about them? I must be missing something.  
>  They just keep doing nothing, too intoxicated to be scared.  
> Better off without them: they're nothing but unstable.  
> Bring ashtrays to the table and that's about the only thing they share."_  
> -"xanny", Billie Eilish

I could scarcely move my legs by the time the medics arrived to take the bus off of Cliff and then take all of us to the hospital—apparently, we wrecked about an hour outside of Stockholm. We were not even near civilization when all of this happened.

James and I sat in the back of the ambulance with blankets around our bodies as they lifted the forlorn bus off of the snow bank, and ultimately off of Cliff.

I looked over to the side of the road to find Joey standing next to Anthrax, all of whom were talking with a news woman from Stockholm about the accident; he stood there with his arms folded across his chest to keep the warmth in his body. I thought of running over to him and thanking him for sitting with me to keep me company until the medics arrived, but they told us to climb into the ambulance so as to go down to Stockholm. We sat there on the side of the road together, for something like twenty minutes, and I missed the chance to actually talk with him and get to know him better.

Although his words about his willing to starve for his band mates stayed with me all the way down the dark highway to the city. Joey, like me, is willing to do anything for his band mates, even with his being an outsider.

We arrived at the hospital in the heart of Stockholm, and much to my chagrin, the frostbite on my legs and feet had not worn away with the warmth and dryness of the ambulance. I had been sitting there in the snow for too long, as what the doctor told me when he sat me down on the flat bed there in the first room. I was alone in there with this man, away from my band mates, my brothers, and I demanded to know what had happened to Cliff and also what had happened to Anthrax, where the five of them ran off to.

“I am afraid your friend did not make it,” he informed me as he lifted my legs to bring back the circulation.

When he said something like that, something within me snapped.

“Friend? _Friend_?” I sputtered. “He is our brother!” Nonplussed, the doctor sighed through his nose and picked up a syringe of what I believe to be morphine to ease the sting of thaw from frostbite. But I fought back: I kicked him right in the chest and scrambled off of the chair. I ran blind towards the end of the hallway. My legs and feet were still numb but it didn't matter to me.

“Son, you are injured!” the doctor called after me. “You have frostbite! You need to calm down!”

“No, I don't!” I exclaimed as I ran out of there. I had no pants on but I had not a single care in the world. I ran throughout the hospital, all numb and disoriented.

Everything is in Swedish, and even though I can understand it, I cannot read it.

I had finally stopped before an empty tray and the men's water closet. My legs are frozen solid: completely numb, and yet I had managed to run away. I am numb all throughout. I want to cry but alas, I cannot. I want to grieve Cliff but there is nothing in my eyes to prove that otherwise. I cannot rage like how James did, and I cannot join Kirk and Frank in the tears. I can only feel numb with the snow bank. I can only feel numb with Joey.

I need to feel something. I need to feel pain.

I swipe the scalpel from the tray and hurry to the men's room. I lock the door behind me. Now, here I am, standing here before the small utterly spotless mirror upon the wall; I am alone in here. I look onward at the boy in the reflection: the boy with the fat face with five chins of flabby flesh underneath. Swollen even without tears. Swollen and ugly, the face of a boy who couldn't save his friend or spend more time with him.

I aim the blade of the scalpel to the base of my hand, right over my wrist. I push down with the tiniest bit of pressure.

The narrow edge is sharper than anything I have ever felt and cold as ice, but at least it's something to contrast with the deep numbness surrounding on my legs and feet. The blade slices through the skin as if it's butter. It hurts so bad that it is enough to bring a tear to my eye.

But it is something. It is better than the nothing behind me and underneath me.

I take the blade out of my skin and watch the blood well up with my rushing pulse. The slice is small, about the size of my pinky nail but my veins are exposed. It hurts—it's so painful, so harsh, for such a tiny incision. That blade went in as if it was nothing—but then again, this is a hospital. These sorts of things need to be razor sharp when performing surgeries and whatnot. But the feeling, this little prick of pain now honeycombing deep inside of my arm, is something, and it was enough to feel something. Feel something in the wake of nothing.

I look up at my reflection again. The reflection of the boy whose face is now swollen with tears. The reflection tells the truth about the person looking into it.

I do not need any drugs to calm me or to soothe me over to adjust to the numbness of loss: I do however need pain because it is something.

I wash off the blade of the scalpel and then wash off the blood with soap and warm water. There are no bandages in here so I nab a paper towel out of the dispenser and place it right on the incision. I hold my wrist to my hip to keep the paper towel on as I amble out of the water closet and return the scalpel.

Much to my amazement, the numb feeling in my legs is now dissipating as I walk through the corridor and search for James and Kirk and a pair of pants.

Allow me to reiterate: I do not need any drugs to calm me or to soothe me over to adjust to the numbness of loss: I do however need pain because it is something.


	7. the skinny mirror (joey's point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Broken heart and broken bones  
>  think about some capsules of horse pills.  
> One more quirky cliche'd phrase;  
> You're the one I wanna refill.  
> In the someday what's that sound?"_  
> -"I Hate Myself and Want to Die", Nirvana

This one friendly guy drove us back to Stockholm and over to the hospital to ensure that we were alright: the last thing the five of us saw before we left the place was the bus being lifted off of Cliff and the pavement. Frankie almost lost his dinner when the bus slipped off of the winch and fell back on top of Cliff: I snapped my eyes shut but it was too late at that point. We were leaving him behind there in the middle of nowhere in Sweden, this guy whom I was just getting to know, and if the wreck didn't get him, that fucking sight right there got him.

In the front lobby of the hospital, there's this skinny little mirror to the right of me.

Every so often, I look over at it and I look on at myself, at this guy with thick black curls and big brown eyes like big black holes and olive skin staring back at me. And every so often, I'll drop my gaze down to his waist. So slim after several days of irregular eating.

It feels like I have something inside of my stomach. Something heavy and hard.

The nurses in here are all so kind to us, but most of them speak Swedish so it's not like we can actually figure things out here or what happened to Metallica. I look over at a couple of blonde nurses off to the side and they're looking at me funny.

Please, don't look at me. I have to disappear.

I'm almost pissed my pants when we went off the road back there and I just got stabbed with a needle because the doctors are curious about us.

Every so often, I return to the sight of the mirror on the wall there.

And it's not until I'm all alone when I finally take a good look at myself.

I stand right next to the glass of the mirror so I can better examine my body.

So slim and skinny, especially all around my legs.

My feet are so narrow.

I feel malnourished and I kind of look it, too. My face has slimmed down a bit.

I lift up my shirt and take a good look at my belly: so flat, but there's a great deal of softness to be felt here. The skin is so soft and delicate around my waist: at one point, I think about Jessica and her possibly kissing me there. I doubt it'll ever happen but it's touchable. At least I hope it is touchable.

It's funny: I haven't been eating so much as of late, perhaps once a day and it's nothing to write home about, either, and yet... the skin there is soft like I've gained weight.

I'm a mess. Completely pasted together with my scrawny body and this soft belly and this gaunt face. I'm a mess. Oh my God.

The food from the cafeteria wafts in here and I wince at the painful digging sensation in the pit of my stomach.

I have to eat but I catch those two blonde nurses looking over at me. I tug down my shirt and I feel my face growing warm. They both laugh at me.

God, please, no. Don’t look at me. Stop. Stop it!

Well, so much for eating tonight. The skinny mirror showed the truth about the skinny guy.


	8. the man in the mirror (lars' point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Loosen the harness of trust,  
>  survey an impulse of lust.  
> The thespian is far away,  
> uprooted yet forced to stay."_  
> -"Feel the Dark", Opeth

It has been two whole days since the accident and we have returned home to the United States, but I do not feel like returning to San Francisco, back to my sad little home. I would rather roam about the streets of New York City and get to better know this city. I have no other way of getting back home anyway and I would rather stay here than be subject to the agony of having to witness the memory of Cliff in everything.

James, Kirk, and I were silent the whole way back home, but they seemed more fixated on raging about the accident. I kept my eye on the vast ocean outside of the plane; all of the little clouds, and I knew that somewhere up there in the cold sky was Cliff. Somewhere in that cold northern darkness he lurks in the shadows still.

I held my wrist close to my waist: that incision hurt like hell, even after I managed to find a piece of gauze and some disinfectant there in the hospital.

And yet I can't help but feel free with that slit there. I am free. I managed to make myself weep for Cliff in the wake of not feeling anything at the moment. I managed to feel something again even as I felt numb to the utter agony and devastation there before me.

I step off of the plane with my coat wrapped around my body—the doctors at the hospital were kind enough to give me a pair of pants. Granted, they are a little big but at least they are something.

I walk through the carpeted corridor. I don't where I am headed, but I am not headed home.

Scott's big Queens accent catches my ear: I turn my head to see the five of them congregated near customs. I spot Joey closest to me.

I run up to them, albeit with the pants falling down my thighs. I catch them before I reach Joey himself; he turns around in time to show me his raised eyebrows.

“Hey, man,” he greets me in that upstate accent.

“Hi—are you guys headed home?” I ask him as I adjust the strap on my overnight bag, which they had fetched for me out of the bus.

“Yeah. I'm takin' the bus back up to Syracuse and then over to 'Swaygo, though—y'know all throughout upstate. Gonna take four hours just ta get home. I gotta get my shit together here first and then I'm outta here for the time bein'.” He hesitates with such a pensive look upon his face.

“Why?” He gazes at me with those large deep brown eyes. “Ya wanna do sump'n together?”

I feel him looking at the gauze on my wrist. Those two big brown eyes examining that pure white sheet of gauze there. I never realized how utterly handsome he is until now, and I say that with confidence as well.

“Yes. I want to walk the streets for a little while.”

Frank says something to him to which he raises a finger at me.

“Yeah—sure. Sure thing, Frankie.”

Joey returns to me.

“Yeah, we can do that, Lars. I've been wantin' to speak to you anyways during this tour anyway. Like—gettin' to know one another, y'know?”

I drop my gaze for a moment to the belt of his jeans, fitted so nicely to his hips: almost too nicely if I do say so myself.

“Of course,” I assure him, returning my gaze to his face. I never thought I would be seeing some of myself in him.


	9. joey and lars in new york city

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another drawing: this one, along with a drawing I did for my PJ story nothing as it seems, was inspired by Green Day's song Give Me Novocaine (that other one is inspired by She's a Rebel).  
> exact same color scheme, but different moods xoxo
> 
> I kept thinking of Monk's cafe in Seinfeld and also the restaurant Jules and Vincent eat at in Pulp Fiction here


	10. two flames (joey's point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Go for credit in the real world you will die.  
>  It's the credit in the straight world:   
> leave your money when you die.  
> Lots of credit in the real world gets you high."_  
> -"Credit in the Straight World", Hole

We're in this little coffee shop here in the heart of Manhattan—we hitched a ride on a city bus. Lars lost his pants in Sweden but I made my little money on this stint of the tour so I assured him on the way over here that he had nothing to worry about.

“I can't believe you are having to, though, Joey,” he told me as he lingered close to me on the bus ride. “Especially given the fact Anthrax doesn't make any money.”

“We make a little,” I replied. “Like I made just enough to get a bus ticket back to to Syracuse. We're gonna haveta hustle, though.”

“When's the bus leave?”

“The last one goes out at... five-ish. So we're gonna haveta make this snappy here.”

We stepped off at the curb across the street from a little place there on the side of the street. He held onto the belt of those big baggy jeans as I led him to the front door.

It's real bright and sunny in here, and by that I mean everything is a nice little shade of yellow in here. We take the first table near the front doors: we're right across from each other. Lars shifts his weight and adjusts his jeans there in the hard seat across from me. I lean forward with my arms folded upon the surface of the table before me.

Such an odd little place: there's no silverware and no napkins before us, nor are there salt and pepper shakers next to me. Maybe this table was bussed just before we walked in, who knows.

I look at the little piece of gauze on Lars' wrist and I wonder what happened there. He drops his gaze to it and then he lifts his hand up to his face so it's out of sight. He extends his other hand out before me; I peer out the window to the rain starting to fall.

Raining for Cliff.

I feel the pain in my stomach again and I hunch my shoulders to ease the feeling. This shit hurts. But I don't feel like eating and I don't feel like bringing any attention to myself, either.

He and I are both silent as I'm trying to keep my stomach quiet and he's gazing out the window looking totally lost. I kind of want to ask him what he's thinking at the moment especially when our waitress shows up to the table with sourdough toast, some jelly, and some clean silverware.

He's about to spread some grape jelly on the toast and I can tell he's about to offer it to me when I speak again.

“You know what? You go ahead an' eat.” He looks at me stunned.

“What? No. Joey—you're paying for this. Treat yourself to something nice.”

“No,” I insist. “No, no. It's okay. You eat something. I've got food at home.”

“But it will be five hours before you return home, though,” he points out as he picks up the small plate to his left. “Have some toast.”

“No—Lars, I don't want toast.”

“Joey, you look like you're about ready to pass out. Eat something.”

“No.” And that time, I'm firm with him. I look at the gauze there on his wrist and I start to wonder what's going on behind that cool demeanor. In fact, if I'm honest, I can kind of see a bit of myself in those green eyes. That same sacrificial soulful look, something that reminds me of myself.

And also my stomach hurts and it looks like his wrist is hurting him.

I nibble on my bottom lip at the sight of him. Pain in my stomach or not, I have to give him a moment. He sinks his teeth into the toast and I bow my head closer to him.

“If two pieces of bread,” I begin, “are about to go into heat and they clink their glasses together beforehand, does that mean that toast toasts to toast?”

He almost gags on the toast from laughing so hard. I show him a little grin in response even as he almost rolls out of the seat. I think we both could use a laugh right now, but for me it hurts to do so. I shake my head and keep my arms folded over my stomach.

“Christ,” I mutter aloud.

“Christ?” he echoes me.

“Crust—wait.”

“Jesus Crust,” he laughs again, “—I like you, Belladonna.”

“Bellardini,” I correct him as the waitress returns with cups of coffee for us. “Belladonna is my pro name. I mean, if you had a last name like that, you'd go by Belladonna, too.”

And as I'm about to pour in a bit of cream for my coffee, I start to wonder if Lars and I have anything more in common. We're both athletic: I'm a hockey player, he's a tennis player. We're both drummers. We're both from faraway places: I'm the guy from upstate, he's an immigrant.

And most of all, we're both in pain. He has the gauze on his arm, I have the ache in my belly.

The one question I have, though, is what brought on that bit of gauze there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for some reason, whenever Joey and Lars are in the same sentence, I have to add a bit of Abbott and Costello type humor no matter how serious the situation. A Native American guy and a Danish guy is just inherently funny to me.


	11. the ceiling mirrors (lars' point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Look and see, I feel the parents hating me.  
>  (Hurt me. You hurt me!)  
> Why don't you step outside and feel me?"_  
> -"Children of the Korn", Korn feat. Ice Cube

Joey and I are headed back to the airport so he can return home to upstate New York. He's going to be all alone on the ride and I am going to be all alone here in New York City until the next flight out to San Francisco, and I have no idea when that will be.

We are seated on this bus—some kind of nonsense about taking the bus for a block or two and then to the subway, which means he is going to be strapped for cash, at least until we can gain access to an ATM. Or he can: it is going to be a while before I can gain access to my money without anything on me.

He's next to me, next to the window and huddled down in his little jacket and with his overnight bag down by his feet. He has his arms folded over his stomach—I think back to what he said to me while we were seated on that snow bank.

He would rather starve than let his band mates go hungry. And I suppose that goes for me as well. While I applaud his kindness and his selflessness, I cannot help but feel slightly perturbed by the sight next to me.

I have no idea how long he had gone without eating prior to now, but he looks a little thin. A little too thin if I might say so myself. His olive skin is a tad washed out and his neck is extra narrow. Or perhaps it's my mere perception of him, but he doesn't look too good.

He had that simple little cup of coffee while we were at the restaurant and I ate all that toast and all those eggs. I offered him a bite of each and he refused them all. The man is serious about his devotion, and he did assure me twice more about having food at home. I had nothing better to do than to take his word for it.

We board off the bus and head over to the subway, where it smells like a toilet and old cheese, but I do not believe either of us mind it, though.

We take our seats on the subway and he's still hunkered down next to me as if he's cold. Indeed, here, I take a glimpse overhead to the ceiling to see the mirrors looming over us. I can see the Danish boy holding onto his wrist so as to hide the gauze there on his skin, and I can also see the mixed boy next to him with his head bowed so as to hide his face. There is in fact a part of me that has no idea how we got here in the first place, but at the same time I can also make sense of it all.

I hurt myself because I needed a release. He's hurting himself because he would rather waste than see me suffer. It makes perfect sense.

Before the end of the stint there on the subway, I want to put my arm around him to keep him warm, but at this point, we arrive at our stop and he guides me off.

We stride up to the busses outside of the airport and I let him get a ticket. I am standing next to him here at the ticket booth when he turns to me with a pensive look upon his face.

“You wanna come home with me? The guy here says the next flight out to San Fran isn't gonna be like—” He returns to the clerk inside. “—how long d'you say it was gonna be?” The man says something and he returns to me. “—gonna be until late tomorrow.”

“Oh, well, I might as well!” I declare.

“Yeah, so make that two tickets ta Syracuse—one way.” He grimaces when the man tells him how much it is going to be for the both of us.

My wrist is in utter agony by the time we board the cool and dark but comfortable bus.

By the time we are on the road, I almost cannot tolerate it for a second longer. Joey has dozed off which buys me a moment to myself.

I hurry down the aisle to the bathroom there at the very end. I slip inside there and lock the door behind me.

It is a small closet of sorts with just a single sink basin and a small toilet scarcely big enough for myself much less someone with a more shapely pair of hips, be they an overweight woman or Joey himself. I hold onto the rim of the basin and gaze into my reflection. The pain is making my face flush. I can't take it.

I peel off the gauze and reveal the wound on my wrist. I wash it off with soap and warm water and let it dry so it can breathe.

Something catches my eye: I glance up at the sight of the stray razor blade just laying there on the sill of the small window before me. I pause for a second.

The pain is waning away but if it does entirely, I might not feel something again. I reach for the blade and bring it to my wrist, right next to that initial wound. It's a smaller, much more narrow slice than the one I did with the scalpel, but it leaves its mark.

I rinse off again, this time even better than the first one: I soap it down twice because I know it is just a strange blade that has been laying there for who knows how long. Once my skin is dry, I return the gauze to my wounds again.

There is something rather euphoric about intentional cutting. Something liberating. Perhaps it is the release of the pain within me through the breaking of the skin and letting my blood spill, but it makes my heart hammer in my chest and it leaves me feeling excited. So excited that I can't help but reach down these baggy trousers and feel myself in between my legs.

I peer up above me to the ceiling over my head. There's a mirror right there, right above the crown of my head. I look into the green eyes of the tormented boy staring back at me with his face bright and excited and his eyes filled with a state of complete unabashed elation.

I'm masturbating in the bathroom of a bus and with a pair of deep slits on the interior of my wrist. What the hell is wrong with me.

Nothing is wrong with me. Nothing. I need an escape, and this is all there is.


	12. the bus ride (joey's point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"I made excuses for a million lies  
>  but all I got was humble kidney pie.  
> So what."_  
> -"Tumble in the Rough", Stone Temple Pilots

I have about five bucks in my pocket right now. Five dollars, and some of it's loose change, too.

It's alright, it's only gonna be a few hours. It's only gonna be a few hours. A few hours and having not eaten anything in a couple of days all the while.

At least the seats are comfy. Oh, are they ever. I don't remember the last time I could lean back so far like I'm doing right now.

I have my arms folded over my stomach to keep it quiet and to keep the pain away. It's doing something—it doesn't hurt like this morning, but I can still feel the hollow feeling within me. Hollow and voided like the deepest hole out there in trees. Hollow and voided... like something else.

And yet, there's something about feeling so hungry. Something that I can only describe as a release of sorts. I'm letting go and letting myself rest. I'm releasing... something from within me.

It doesn't hurt so bad.

In fact, I would say it's going away. I have my hands on my stomach: even through my jacket and my shirt, I can feel how soft I am there. All soft and tender.

It's going away even as Lars is coming back to the seat next to me. His face looks washed out, like he, too, hadn't eaten anything in a while. He's clutching at his wrist again—what the hell happened there?

He takes his seat and I can smell that cheap ass soap wafting off of his skin. Smells like he used a little too much, if I'm honest.

“Are you alright?” he asks me in that light Danish accent. He cracks a smile at me and I just wonder what he's thinking right then.

“Stomach hurts,” is the first thing out of my mouth.

“Knew you should have eaten something at the restaurant.”

“I would rather you did, though,” I confess to him with a caress of my stomach.

“Where are we, by the way?” He gestures out the window to the right of me. Outside of the window are scores of those lush trees and some low hills off in the distance.

“Somewhere around the Catskills,” I reply to him, “which means we're gonna be in Syracuse in a couple of hours.” And for me it's going to feel like a couple of centuries, especially with that feeling of hunger returning to me out of the blue. It's creeping inside of my stomach. It's digging away at my belly.

It hurts but not in a sharp pang sort of way. It's more like a creeping, digging feeling in the pit of my stomach. It's gnawing away at me.

If I sit perfectly still, it goes away for a moment and then returns again. It's hurting me more and more by the time we reach Syracuse. Add in the sway of the bus, I almost feel sick. It's making me sick.

By the time we reach that big donut of freeway around Syracuse, I feel like I'm about to puke, but there ain't nothing to puke up. Lars leads me off of the bus and I feel my head spin at one point. I almost feel like I could drop down to the ground at any second. My knees are quivering like crazy.

Lars turns to me because of the look on my face.

“Joey?” he asks me. “Joey, are you alright?”

I have no strength. I feel so sick.

Lars puts his arm around me to catch me before I can fall. I feel like I’m going to take a tumble down onto the wet pavement before us.

“Are you alright?” he asks me again right into my face.

“I don't feel so good.”

“Shit—where's the bus to Oswego?”

“Look around for it...” I blurt out. Lars holds me close to him and guides me over to the next bus. My feet shuffle along the pavement. He sits me down on the seat closest to the front doors. My head hurts and my stomach creeps with the pain. He keeps close to me.

“How long?” he whispers to me.

“To—over to 'Swaygo?” I ask him; it hurts to talk. Jesus Christ.

“Yes.”

“An hour?” I grimace under the feeling within me. Lars seems to forgotten about the gauze on his wrist because he's keeping me close to the side of his body. It's going to kill me, but I feel so liberated. I feel like I'm going under... sinking under... I don't wanna die. God, please, don't let me go.

But I also don't want to break this feeling, either. I feel like I’m free with this feeling inside of me. I feel sick but I also feel free.


	13. joey's place (lars' point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"So hope and promise fades,  
>  and the sun forgets to rise,  
> I'm lonely and I'm thirsty,  
> but it's better I stay dry.  
> No more than two drinks away  
> from crying."_  
> -"Two Drink Minimum", Chris Cornell

Poor Joey is leaning against the side of my chest by the time we reach his hometown of Oswego, a rather good sized town sprawled about a bowl shaped valley resting right upon the shore of Lake Ontario. I have to keep my hand on the side of his head to steady him and keep him from passing out. He has not eaten anything and I can only wonder what he might have at his place. He bows his head against my chest and winces from the agony inside of him.

“It's alright, man, we're almost there,” I assure him for the fifth time in a row. I know we are coming close because the lake effect is already beginning to take hold. The sky is darkening and it looks as though it is about to rain.

Lucky for the both of us, the bus rolls up to the stop and he mutters something to me.

“Huh?” I am gentle with him.

“We only haveta walk for a block,” he says to me in a hushed voice.

“Okay.” I pick up his overnight bag and lead him off of the bus to the damp cold outside. Once we're on the sidewalk, I sling the overnight bag over my shoulder and keep my arm around him. He has his arms pressed to his poor stomach and I know it's getting at him now.

“Which way?” I ask him once we are posted up at a corner.

“Right over there.” He nods in the direction of the lake and a low stucco apartment complex before it.

“Literally right before the waters—wow.”

“Yeah. It's—It's better 'an nuttin', but y'know it's—it's—Jesus Christ—it's sump'n—”

He's almost down on the ground by the time we reach his apartment. He jingles the keys in his coat pocket and almost drops them onto the sidewalk as he hands them to me.

“Ya haveta—haveta—have to jimmy it a li'l bit—”

It is quite the task, holding him against me with my left arm, keeping his overnight sack over my right shoulder, and holding onto his house key in my right hand. But I manage to “jimmy it” as he described it and I push the door open with my shoulder. He and I almost fall right onto the hard cold carpet but he clutches to the back of the small shabby sofa and I stagger forth and catch myself right next to him. He's panting and breathing hard as he climbs over the top of the couch and lands on the tweedy cushions.

I pick myself up and set down his things to take a look at his laying his wrists across his brow.

“My stomach is just—just—killing me,” he groans. “Fuck.”

He shifts his weight and I peel off my coat. I need to give him something fast, something in the tiny kitchen off to my left.

“God, I feel awful,” he sputters. “—fuckin' terrible idea—”

I dart into the next room to find something, anything. All I can find is a little thing of dinner rolls and a little smidge of milk in the fridge, but at least it's something.

“I want you to eat this, Joey,” I beg to him. “Please. Eat this.”

He looks at me with such agony riding over his face. I am beholding him the dinner roll and the remainder of the milk as if it is his last meal. It might be for all I know.

I don't know when is the last time he had something substantive and he looks terrible. I kneel down before his face and his trembling bottom lip.

“I want you to eat—soothe the pain in your stomach and eat for me. Here—”

I gaze into those soft brown eyes, as soft and dark as the earth outside.

“Please,” I beg to him in a gentle voice. “Please, Joey.”

His hand is trembling as he reaches for the dinner roll and then he shoves it into his mouth. He takes about three bites of it and they're massive bites. His mouth is full as he runs his fingers down his lips and his chin, and down the front of his neck and down his throat.

“This should help wash it down,” I assure him as I hand him the cup. He winces as he swallows down the dinner roll and it is all I need to know as he drinks from the cup.

“You need things like fats and carbs—things to nourish you and keep you going—” Right, I am one to talk given the lot of us have been fueled by nothing more than booze for most of this tour. But regardless, I need to make him something. Something to nurse him back to health. Something to fill his stomach and make him feel good again. Make his body feel loved and desirable again.

Make me feel as though I am doing some good in the wake of having lost Cliff and not having done enough for him. I must do something more than grieving with this wound on my wrist. I must avenge him.

“Do you anything to make pancakes with?” I ask him as he hands me the empty cup.

“I—think so?” he replies in a little broken squeak of a voice. “There might be some in the cupboard next to the fridge—ya'd haveta look.” He closes his eyes and relaxes with the back of one hand resting on his forehead and his other on his stomach.

“I don't—I don't have butter, though,” he sputters out. “I think—Miss Foxworth next door might have some.” The broken squeak smoothes out into a breathy whisper. “You'd haveta ask her, though.”

“Not a problem,” I assure him. “Right next door, you said?”

“Right next door. Right behind the wall here—” He gestures to the kitchen doorway to our left. “I'm already feelin' better, I should tell ya.”

“Okay, good. It's the fat in the milk that's helping you, I know it. But I shall return. Don't move. You just stay right there and rest.”

I am stunned by the slight concave forming in his belly even as I am walking out of the apartment and onto the sidewalk once more. Indeed, I spot the front door on the left. I knock on the panel three times and hesitate. The door swings open and I am met with the warm aroma of soup and a frail little white haired old lady wrapped in a knit shawl.

“Can I help you, son?” she greets me in a high pitched squeak of a voice.

“I just came from next door—I was wondering if you have any butter on hand if it's alright.”

“Oh, absolutely! Why don't you come in for a minute? It's gonna rain like any second now—” I thought my Danish accent would sound odd in upstate New York; I was not expecting to hear a Southern accent here, however. But I am gracious enough to stride inside of the tiny flat and relish the smell of the soup. I close the door behind me as she ambles into the kitchen with her hands clutching at the ends of her shawl. I notice something about Joey's apartment and that of Mrs. Foxworth: his place is small, humble, and cozy, big enough for just him. Humble and cozy, just like him.

Her place is small, too, but there's something else here. Something… I want to say sparse. Almost utilitarian. I watch her stride over to the fridge for a stick of butter and then she doubles back to me.

“I am—just right next door,” I explain to her once she hands it to me.

“Right next door, here? The other side of the wall in Bellardini's place?”

“Yes.”

“I just realized I haven't seen him in a while—I might as well come over an' say 'hi' to him.”


	14. breakfast at midnight (joey's point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“All I need is peace of mind.  
>  Piss it all, just wastin' time.  
> I won't open the door;  
> I can't take anymore.”_  
> -“Double Crossed”, Joey Belladonna

Well. Looks like drinking from that cup helped me somewhat: I'm not shaking so much anymore. I'm not in so much agony anymore.

Nothing is going to change the fact that I'm still hungry and that dinner roll's going to leave me soon.

I don't even know if I can get up. Can I get up?

Maybe. I think. Wait. My wrists are shaking.

Shit. Ow. Bad idea. Ugh.

Lars and—

“Oh, hi, Miss Foxworth!” The whole back of my throat is dry and parched, even after having drank down that glass of milk.

I forgot to tell Lars that—she doesn't really like me all too much.

I don't know, like I seriously can't explain it in the least. But it's with every faint glimpse of those cold steely blue eyes, every time she purses her lips at me, I can feel her contempt at me. I swallow at the sight of her looming over me, right there right behind the back of my couch.

“Hello, Bellardini,” she greets me in a low voice; I still wonder how a woman from the rollin' hills of Tayhas wound up here in upstate New York. Her husband liked me, though, but he fell ill with the big C a few years back and the last time I saw him was right after I got the part with Anthrax. So now that he's gone, I don't have that counter balance nearby. She purses her lips at me.

“You're looking—good,” she tells me; she looks at me with such a cold stare. I follow her gaze onto my stomach and my thighs.

“You are, too,” I say to her out of good manners.

The aroma of something floats into the room right then.

Pancakes? Pancakes.

“Hey, Joey, how many do you want?” Lars calls out from the kitchen.

“Uh—how many ya got?” My voice breaks from the lack of anything entering my body.

“Four for myself, one for Mrs. Foxworth here, and I already made a couple for you.”

“I'll just take those,” I assure him as I try to sit up again. I recline back on my elbows and I look down at my waist. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Mrs. Foxworth rounding the back of the couch to the arm. She's clutching onto the ends of her shawl as if it's freezing in here: it's sort of warm but if I can lay here in short sleeves and jeans, it's comfortable enough. She peers about the room as if she's in another dimension before she takes a seat in the chair across from me.

This really isn't the best place for more than one person, if I'm honest. But it's home to me and if she's too uncomfortable here, it's on her. I manage to lean back against the arm of the couch in time for Lars to step into the room with a pair of plates: one for me and one for her I presume.

Oh, man. The very sight alone of just these two on the plate before me is making me even more hungry than I already am. Some melted butter. A li'l drizzle of syrup. Perfect.

I don't hesitate for one second once I have the fork in my hand. I forget about Jessica. I've totally forgotten about her at this point.

I want nothing more than these fucking things in me.

Get in my belly!

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Mrs. Foxworth spitting out a bite of pancake.

Oh, but why? These are so light and so fluffy. Just the right amount of butter and syrup on top. I could eat these all day! I really could.

I almost lick my plate to get the rest of the syrup and the butter. I look over at Lars showing me a little smile, one where his mouth is full of pancake. He made himself a huge stack, holy hell.

But I've missed that full feeling—it feels so good to eat after having not doing so for some time.

But then I look over at her again and she's mopping up a few of her tiny pancake bites in the big puddle of syrup on her plate. Either she's not hungry or—

“Is everything alright?” Lars asks her once he swallows it down.

“I don't really like fluffy pancakes,” she confesses. “I'd rather they be flat.”

“I tried to make yours flat, though,” he points out. She wrinkles her nose as she takes a small syrup soaked bite.

“Not good enough,” she says in a flat tone and with her mouth full which is... unbecoming. “But you did what ya could, though—” She raises her eyebrows at that and shows him a thin lipped smile. She then glances over at me and swallows.

“You sure ate those rather quickly,” she says to me.

“I was hungry,” I point out.

“Now if only you can eat more like that more often—you wouldn't be so damn skinny. So skinny—a boy like you could use a lot more than that—”

I don't even know what to say to that. I just spent the past couple of days at near starvation and now I'm being told I'm not good enough skinny?

I look over at Lars again and he shrugs at me with a bit of a baffled expression on his face. I swallow down and I can still taste that sweet sticky syrup.

“Will the two of you excuse me for a minute,” I say to them as I set my plate down on the coffee table off to my left.

“Sure, man,” Lars assures me in a kind voice.

Well, I feel better now that's for sure. But that cut under my skin, if I'm honest. I climb off of the couch and make my way down the hall to the bathroom.

So damn skinny. What the actual fuck.

I stand before the mirror with my hands rested upon the rims of the sink basin. I stare into my own two brown eyes.

Too damn skinny. Too much.

Everything is wrong with me.

I hate to do this because I miss feeling full and Lars made such wonderful pancakes, but I'm reaching for the little hair tie on the counter in front of me. I tie back my curls so my whole face is accentuated now—I always thought I look weird with a ponytail. But I sigh through my nose and turn to the lid next to me.

And I put my finger down my throat.


	15. an old woman's plight (lars' point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Oh my God, I feel it in the air.  
>  Telephone wires above  
> are sizzlin' like a snare.  
> Honey, I'm on fire, I feel it everywhere:  
> nothin' scares me anymore."  
> _  
> -"Summertime Sadness", Lana Del Rey

Joey has been in the bathroom for quite a while now. I hope those pancakes sat well with him: I hope these pancakes sit well with me. I hope they sit well with me especially with Mrs. Foxworth staring on at me. I feel good enough inside: those pancakes filled me good and nice and nice and good. But, if I am honest, she is making me a little bit uncomfortable.

I was kind enough to her there in the kitchen so I am a little disgruntled and disappointed in myself for not living up to what she wanted from me here.

At one point—and by that, I mean once I walk back into the room after having rinsed off my plate and took my seat there on the lumpy couch, she lowers her gaze to the rest of my body and then she peers over her shoulder.

“What's wrong?” I ask her, and she returns to me with a far away expression in her eyes.

“Don't tell Bellardini this, please,” she begs me: her voice creeps over me in such cold frosty fashion, like the icy fingers of the Grim Reaper himself.

I swallow at that.

“You—want me to lie to Joey?” I frown and knit my eyebrows together.

“If it's not too much trouble to ask,” she says in a curt tone of voice. I swallow again, but this time I'm glad that I do not have anything in my mouth.

“You went through something horrible, son,” she begins again as she eyes the gauze on my wrist. “Something traumatic.”

“A bus accident,” I tell her in a low voice. “I—” I nibble on my bottom lip. “—I lost my best friend.”

She gasps and cocks her head to the side, but she never changes her expression. It's jarring to look at her after having told her. But it makes me wonder, like I wonder what's happening behind those cold steely blue eyes. Joey groaning from down the hall catches my ear and I know the pancakes did not sit well with him.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” she says, unfazed by Joey's agony. “Well—I should tell you—and don't tell him, please.”

I sigh through my nose. I hear the pipes running with water. He's taking a shower?

“Okay. I won't.”

“I'm sick,” she says. “I suffered a stroke back in May, but—” She frowns and lowers her gaze to the floor. “—they found a growth inside of my brain hemispheres—it's growing inside of my brain—and they found out it's malignant. It metastasized to my stomach and my ovaries back in August.”

I gape at her and bring a hand to my mouth.

“Oh, my God,” I breathe out. “Oh, my God, I—I am so sorry to hear that.”

“I start chemo tomorrow but,” she continues, “the doctors gave me two months. It's advanced enough to where it could kill me any day now.”

“But why don't you want me to tell Joey?” I ask her. She sighs through her nose and closes her eyes.

“I just don't want him to know. I know I haven't been very kind to him in the past, too perfectionist towards him, and I want to give him closure. I want to leave my body without him looking or knowing that I've gone. I don't want him to know—”

She clutches at herself.

“—I don't want him to know that I'm not worthy of his love or his forgiveness.”

“No,” I insist. “No, no, no, no, no, no—you are more than worthy of his love! You must tell him, Mrs. Foxworth!”

She shakes her head and I know the water works are coming. Her eyes are closed and her spindly hands are reaching up to her face to hide herself from me. Her gnarled knuckles make me think of skeletons. This is a woman who is on death's door, and here I am, in Cliff's wake no less, about to lose her before my very eyes. I never got to tell Cliff goodbye, but I can with Mrs. Foxworth.

I lunge for her and kneel down before her knees. I gaze up into her wounded face. I hear water splashing on the floor of the shower and I know Joey has to be coming out of there soon enough. As I am gazing up into her face, Cliff immediately bursts into mind. I had no time then, and this time is all there is.

“Mrs. Foxworth, you must tell him,” I insist; I feel the tears coming on again as Cliff hangs within my memory, “you must tell him so he can reconcile things with you and so you can go onto your grave with a clean conscience. Please. Please. He has to know. He deserves to know that you are about to meet your maker soon and so you must. You must!”

She doesn't reply. Instead, she climbs out of my grip and runs out of the room. She runs fast for a little elderly woman: she bolts out the door into the cold night and leaves it wide open. I scramble to my feet to find her running back next door to her place. I stand there at the open door with the lake effect breeze on my face. Mrs. Foxworth could go tonight and she could go in complete silence. She could go without a sound.

Because death makes no sound.

However, I wonder how I would break it to Joey. I wonder how he would react by my serving as messenger.


	16. the vast mirror (joey's point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“He's gonna get high, high, high, when he's low, low, low.  
>  The fire burns from better days.  
> And she screams 'why, oh, why'; I said 'I don't know'.  
> The catastrophic hymns from yesterday of misery.”_  
> -”Misery”, Green Day

I climb out of the shower with some tendrils of my hair still clinging onto my collar bones. I can't believe I did that, but I had to give myself something more than letting a comment that hit me at the wrong time the upper hand. I have to be above that. I can't succumb to the whim of my own sick stomach or anything else within me.

And yet, what's done is done.

My back is aching me, and so are my hips and my shoulders, and my stomach is on fire but I had to do it. No offense to Lars and his pancakes at all, but it was more than worth it.

I reach for a clean towel and pat my face with it, and then I ruffle my curls with it. I wrap it around my waist and make my way over to the mirror over the sink.

I wipe the condensation off of the surface of the mirror before me. I feel hungover, like dried out. That morning after feeling, that feeling of having had a few drinks and no matter how much water you try to drink down or run over your skin, you can't seem to feel hydrated.

Dried out even though I took a warm shower and let the water wash over me and hold me close. Dried out and hungover even though I haven't had a drink in a few years.

No wonder why I feel so fucked up and so odd from the rest of the scene, aside from the fact I'm a strange man in a strange scene: I don't drink or do drugs or anything like that.

And yet here I am, feeling fucked up and all manner of sideways. What the hell happened.

I gaze into those rich brown eyes, those brown eyes that have seen so much in the past few years alone, and that narrow face, still soft looking and boyish. My face, being as narrow as it is, is still kind of round. I think I'm always going to have a round face: it won't be as full as Lars, but it's right behind him.

I wipe down the mirror some more so I can look at myself. The reflection of this elegantly thin young man in a great deal of agony from having not eaten and then from puking.

I examine that slender body before me, with his toned chest, still toned from years of playing hockey and almost going semi-pro, and his svelte stomach that's... weirdly soft. As soft as a pillow. The vast mirror before me is showing me this slender young man who looks fine on the outside but isn't feeling like that within.

The mirror is lying to me.

I remember when I was a kid I was almost chubby. In fact, it wasn't even that long ago I had kind of a round fat little tummy on me, like it poked out and it always got a little bigger whenever I ate something substantial. A little belly for a little boy.

It's kind of stubborn, too, like whenever I have a seat or I slouch over a little too far I can feel it there. That little pocket of extra flesh right there wanting to roll over the waist of my shorts or my jeans. High waists come in handy for that reason. I don't have to feel that when the button is right underneath my own.

I keep touching the skin underneath my belly button, where it's extra soft and even kind of silky. All soft and delicate, and very slim, but delicate to where I can be due for some kisses there…

There has to be something more than this. There has to be an end to this. This is insane. I'm too soft for this. Too soft, too delicate, and too gentle.

How did I ever even get here in the first place? How did I ever let anything get under my skin in such a horrible fashion? It's not like I grew up rough and hard—if anything, I had it pretty good growing up out here in the sticks.

And then I think of Jessica and the way in which she looked at me. I think of any other girl who's looked at me, and that goes for Mrs. Foxworth, too.

I'm the bachelor for a reason after all.

I touch my chest again before I reach for the hem of the towel so as to unravel it so I can get dressed.

I hear silence outside of the bathroom door and I know that old lady went home. I'll just keep my shorts on as I'm heading across the hall to my room for a fresh change of clothes.

I'm sure Lars won't mind—this is my place after all.


	17. the knife (lars' point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"You got it, some kind of magic.  
>  Hypnotic; you're leaving me breathless.  
> I hate this; you're not the one I believe in  
> with God as my witness."_  
> -"I Caught Myself", Paramore
> 
> ⚠️blood and injury warning⚠️

I hope Joey does not see me like this. I desperately hope he does not see me in the way of a broken feeling.

I made all of these pancakes for both him and Mrs. Foxworth—she refused to eat them because I made them wrong whereas I think he barfed his up. It would explain why the water was running just a little bit ago.

I feel like such an idiot. I do so much for people—I would move mountains for James and Kirk and Cliff. And I did. And I wound up losing Cliff to an overturned bus. My worst fear is James and Kirk forming a faction with each other and leaving me out of it somehow. I know I mustn't think that, but alas: I cannot help it.

I want to have a word with Joey, like my desire is that of asking him how he feels because I do not want to bar any resentment whatsoever, not towards him, not towards James and Kirk. The two of them are my brothers and I would do anything for Anthrax because we helped them out. They are the guys next door to us—or at least to me anyways. The guys next door despite them hailing from here in New York.

I want to get to know him better, this soft spoken Iroquois Italian man from the end of the world, the upside of New York state.

I pad into the kitchen with my empty plate; I do like his place here. Big enough for just him and maybe one other person, and yet small enough for someone of short stature such as myself.

I hope he is alright in the bathroom there. If he upchucked his pancakes, and I am positive he did, it means I did something to make him do that. I made him feel sick. I made him feel sick enough to throw it all out of his stomach. Now his body is sore and he had to clean up.

I rinse off the plate under the wash of warm water from the mouth of the faucet, and then dry it off with the shabby dish towel before me, and then I slip it back into the cupboard above my head.

When I made the pancakes in here, I searched around for the spatula and I wound up finding the drawer with a rack of knives. A rack of silvery knives, each larger than the last.

I glance down at the gauze on my wrist. It doesn't so much ache anymore rather than itch. It itches like crazy underneath the adhesive in particular.

Careful not to further hurt myself, I peel off the gauze and reveal the pair of wounds on my skin. I believe I can rid of the gauze now, and I do: and then I hold my arm underneath the warm water and a bit of soap again to ease the itchy feeling. But nothing can deny the fact I have two very substantive wounds on my wrist.

One is slightly larger than the other and they're both a little bit deep at that.

It's almost as if I have tiger stripes on my wrist.

But what about my other wrist?

As clean as whistle as Cliff would have said. Clean and yet numb. No feeling there. No feeling much like the other night. No feeling like the other night.

I mustn't. I cannot. And I find myself reaching into the drawer with the knives. I am taking out one knife for myself—the largest one at that. The one that looks as though it can break through bone if hit hard enough. I must push myself to the brink of utmost pain now. It's too much not to bear now. I have to do it. I have to do it even if it means putting myself on the line.

I have put myself on the line, numerous times. And now I am about to bleed again. I am about to bleed for the ones I love. It's not just about the pain now: it's for the ones I love.

“Lars,” Joey's voice catches my attention, and it catches my attention in such a way that I sink the edge of the blade right into my wrist and turn my head towards him at the same time. He gapes at me with his brown eyes large and the color in his face washed out to the that of ashes.

“Lars—what—”

I nibbled on my bottom lip. I want to tell him that it's not what it looks like...

...but it is in fact exactly what it looks like.

“—what are you doing,” he asks in a low, flat voice. “And moreover, why are you doing it with my good knife.”


	18. two fat boys (joey's point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Kisses on the foreheads of the lovers wrapped in your arms,  
>  you've been hiding them in hollowed out pianos left in the dark."_  
> -"Apocalypse", Cigarettes After Sex

I grimace at the ache in the upside of my back, although I'm not sure what I'm grimacing at more for that matter. He’s showing me the silvery blade of the knife pressed right there on his skin. There's a bead of blood forming underneath the edge of the blade. Right there on his wrist.

It can't be. No. Why.

Lars nibbles on his bottom lip. He raises his eyebrows at me. He freezes in place.

“It is what it looks like,” he says in a soft voice. I stagger back a bit and run my back up against the wall. Lars lays the knife into the kitchen sink; I feel sick again, like I have to puke again. But there ain’t anything to puke up again in my stomach.

“No, Joey—listen to me.” Lars runs his fingers through his hair: blood streams down his wounded wrist, which he's holding next to his waist. His round face flushes and he raises his scabbed wrist up at me. The gauze is gone now. Now I can find a pair of prominent wounds on the flesh there. A deep one on the inside and a shallow one on the upper side of his arm. They look dark and itchy and surrounded by a reddish hue.

I shake my head at him. I clutch at my stomach. I feel soft, a little too soft. Way too soft.

I bow my head and my neck aches, but it's the least of my troubles.

“Look into my face,” he begs me. “Look at me. Please, look at me.”

I stumble out from there and hurry back down the hall to my room. I take off my shirt and my wet hair lands on my back. I had eaten from the hand of a guy who's intentionally wounding himself. Why.

Why.

Just... why.

I look down at my belly: all flat and soft looking. I run my fingers over my skin: there’s a gentle curve on my waist, and it's so soft there. Too soft. I made the mistake of eating those pancakes. Too much of a curve there. There’s just too much. This is just too much.

I’m too much.

I lift my head to the window over my bed: it's dark outside, dark enough, to where I can look at myself. I can look at the roundness of my face.

I gaze at myself long and hard in the reflection of the window. I don't see a skinny boy anymore—I see a fat boy. I curl my fingers over my skin.

Too soft. Too fucking soft. I feel myself getting fuller even after having puked.

“God, I'm too fat,” I hear him grumble in the next room. He pads back into the kitchen.

I back up to the wall next to my closet and sink down to my floor. My body aches and I feel sick.

I'm just going to stay here. Just going to stay here and let myself waste.

No. Not me.


	19. blood on my hands (lars' point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"How can I find love,  
>  faith and trust inside of your rain?  
> So unreal, can't find another place of your rain,  
> I believe..."_  
> -"Rain", Guano Apes

I take a seat on the floor in the kitchen and pull my knees up to my chest. My wrist is hurting me, and hurting so much that I have to rest it wound side up on the top of my knee. I feel terrible now. I used Joey and I used something from him. What the hell have I done.

I look down at my wrists and the wounds there upon my skin. The one on the other wrist, the fresh one, is bleeding like it's droplets of water. It itches and throbs with pain. It pools on top of the skin and the edges of the wound. I have to keep it level otherwise it's going to drip on the floor.

Oh, wait, it already has. Oh no. There's a pair of blood streaks underneath the wound. They line down the skin like streaked droplets of rain.

I take a glimpse down to the floor next to my feet. The blood on the shiny white linoleum resembles paint. Drops of paint. I paint with my blood. I paint with the pain and with my own blood.

I scramble up to my feet and lunge for the rim of the sink to wash off the blood from my arm. I need to dress this thing. I went in too deep: I have to put some gauze on this. This is going to hurt so bad, especially when the blood spirals down the drain underneath my hands.

I smack my wrist on the edge of the sink basin. The wound keeps bleeding: the water doesn't help matters, if anything, it's making it worse. I need something. I switch off the faucet and run out of there. I double back down the hallway to the bathroom.

Joey's cologne and soap greets me when I step into the room.

I put some soap on the wound first, but it's still bleeding. I rummage through the drawer next to me for some gauze or something. Aside from a roll of white paper tape, nothing.

What the fuck. The man's a hockey player, surely he has something to dress wounds on his arms and legs.

There is a bottle of witch hazel and some cotton pads—I know it will stop the itching.

I pour a few droplets on a clean pad and rub it across the wound. The cool clear witch hazel soothes the skin but makes the pain sting even more. It stings so bad: I grimace but I keep rubbing it down. I lift up the pad to examine the wound itself: it's still bleeding but I know it's going to help me.

I toss the pad in the little waste bin next to me and scrounge for another pad and press it to the wound. I pick up the tape and, using one hand, I peel it off of the roll. I pick up the roll and bite on it to take off the piece. But I keep stretching it instead.

I have to hold it down on the counter with the back of my hand so I take off this long piece. I wrap the tape around my wrist and keep the pad pinned to my skin.

I hope that should help. I clutch at my hand and hold it to my chest. I have to go back into the kitchen and clean up my blood.

I put the roll of tape back into the drawer with my scabbed hand and pad out of the bathroom. I double back to the kitchen to fetch the sponge and wipe up the blood. The scents from the bathroom follow me.

As I'm mopping up the blood with the sponge, I take a glimpse to his little refrigerator and the pantry on the wall to my right. The poor man barfed up the pancakes.

The blood goes away, but nothing can deny it there on my hands or on my wrist even as I wring it out under the faucet once more. I wash my hands there in the sink and dry them off.

Joey doesn't eat. He has to eat. He is not eating too much.

I must be gentle.

I must give him what I could not give Cliff. Cliff slipped out of my hands like the blood from my wound, and now I must patch it up myself with the cotton and the tape. I must soothe things with Joey.

I am the one.

I must show him my love. I have to be vulnerable with him. I have to show him the wounds on my wrists. I have to show these to him. He has to show me his sore belly.

We have to heal each other. We have to heal together. Here we are in his apartment, with nowhere to go. We both have the opportunity now here in upstate New York.

I have to help him. He has to help me. We have to help each other.

We're both fucked up—we have to heal together.


	20. on the floor (joey's point of view)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"My knife it's sharp and chrome,  
>  come see inside my bones.  
> All of the fiends are on the block:  
> I'm the new king, I take the queen.  
> See here we are all anemic,  
> in here anemic and sweet."_  
> -"Knife Prty", Deftones

I'm too ugly. Too ugly to love. Too ugly for anything. I brushed my teeth and yet they don't feel clean.

I run my fingers through the crown of curls atop my head: they're wiry and a little dry from cleanliness. I'm clean and yet I feel filthy.

I'm just going to go hungry. Lars can take everything if he wants. And yet... I feel the need to eat again. I barfed up those pancakes and yet I feel the need to eat everything in the fridge.

My stomach is hurting me. I need to eat and I want to eat, but I can't. I just can't eat anything at all. And yet I want it.

There's a knock on the door.

“Joey?” Lars calls through the panel.

“No, God, please—” I writhe there on the floor and bow my head. The door swings open anyway and he steps inside; out of the corner of my eye, I make out the shape of his bare feet. I glance up at him and his clutching his arms as if he's cold. I bow my head again a bit.

He crouches down next to me and gazes into my face. I bring my shoulders towards my face; he tucks a lock behind his ear and gazes on at me with a soft look in his green eyes.

“Joey, listen to me,” he starts in a soft voice. “I have been thinking—we are both fucked up right now. Look at me—”

He shows me the makeshift bandage on his wrist and the scabbed over wounds on the other. I grimace at the sight of it all.

“We have to heal together,” he tells me. “You and I, here at your place—here in your bedroom—”

I swallow at the sound of that.

“Listen,” he whispers to me, “we have to do this before either of us gets worse. I'm going to cut myself more and I know you aren't going to eat, so—” He clears his throat. “—you must tell me what the problem is. I don't really have anyone to speak to about—losing Cliff. And I know you are a loner here in upstate New York. You have to tell me. You have to tell me how you feel right now.”

I swallow again. He takes a seat next to me there on the floor. It's like we're back in Sweden, except the positions are swapped. The pain in my belly escaped from his head and his heart. Of course.

My arms and legs are shaking even by sitting there on the hard floor.

“Please, Joey,” he begs to me in a delicate whisper. “Please. Tell me. Tell me what's causing the ailing inside your belly right now.”

I close my eyes and sigh through my nose.

“If I eat,” I start, “—if I binge, I should say—I won't feel good about myself.”

“But why, though?” he demands. “Why won't you feel good about yourself?” I don't reply to that. Shit, I don't even know how to reply to that. I rest my hands on my stomach, right there on the bare skin.

“Why don't you feel good about yourself?” he asks me.

“I just—I don't.”

“Did someone say something to you?”

“I feel so ugly and awful.”

“But I'm looking at you right now,” he points out, “I think you are quite the good looking man if I do say so myself. I mean, the fact you brought me back here to Oswego tells me of your kindness. You are kind and sweet. You are not awful at all, Joey. Not at all.”

“I feel like I don't deserve it, though,” I confess to him. He nibbles on his bottom lip.

“You more than deserve it,” he insists, and I hear him breathing more heavily.

“I just want to eat, though,” I continue.

“Then get in there and fucking eat something!” he exclaims, his voice cracking. It takes me by surprise but I can see the pain in his eyes.

“If I do, I'll eat the whole fucking kitchen, though,” I tell him, “—and if I do, I'm just gonna puke and starve. Lars, if I'm not a skinny bastard, I'm worthless. If I don't weigh anything, I'm fucking worthless. You hear me?”

“I do,” he says in a low voice and I freeze in place. Did I just say that out loud? I did. His bottom lip trembles; I look down at his wounded wrists. So wounded and sore looking, much like my poor stomach. I glance up at his green eyes, which are brimming with tears.

“Joey, listen to me—”

He hesitates and widens his eyes at me.

“Joey, look at your hair,” he points out to the crown of my head. Even though I had just taken a shower, the roots of the curls feel dry, like I had just stood underneath a heat lamp and dried it all out. My hair is dry, too dry. The top of my head feels cold, too.

He touches my arm with the tips of his fingers.

“You are so cold,” he whispers to me, and because I'm a genius, I assume it's because I don't have my shirt on.

I think of Jessica and how she rejected me in the British Isles. I don't eat because some girl treated me like fucking bullshit. And yet, here's Lars, touching me and feeling me like he's one of my parents. Oh, God, my parents.

I don't think I even told them about the accident. We rushed home from Scandinavia after all. Lars brushes away a tear and I keep thinking back to that night. That black night around us. Everything has gone dark, save for the little bit of light leftover from the northern lights and the burgeoning sunrise. The snow is cold and soft. Lars is sitting there in the snow staring at Cliff's legs. The memory is so fresh, so fresh that I feel like we're actually back there in Sweden. Fresh enough to warrant a bunch of tears from Lars himself.

“I lost my brother,” he says in a broken voice.

“He was crushed,” I mutter with a shake of the head. “Just smashed—I don't feel so good.”

Lars bows his head on my shoulder and he starts weeping. Even feeling his head there, I can see what he means now by saying that I'm cold.

“These scars—I am always going to have them,” he says in a broken whisper.

“I feel like I'm going to faint—” I confess to him.

“No, Joey—”

But I'm slipping away. I fall asleep right there on the floor right next to him.


	21. the mirror never lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Can I tell you what  
>  I feel inside?  
> Is it a place you  
> feel you can hide?  
> And every time that  
> I asked you what to say,  
> you fucking lied to me."_  
> -"The Mirror Never Lies", Butcher Babies

Joey opens his eyes to gray morning light. He had made it through the night and by some black magic, by some miracle, Lars had dragged him into the bed. He had hoisted him over his shoulders, the little wounded man he is, and lay him down right there with his head on the soft pillow. Lars had tugged the blankets over his thin hungry body and bode him good night once he had him there; Lars himself meanwhile had fallen asleep at the foot of Joey's bed. His long beautiful mousy brown hair spans across the top of the blankets: as Joey lifts his head, he can make out the sight of the top blanket covering his little body.

Joey bought him breakfast and brought him here to upstate New York, and then Lars returned the favor by opening him up and then laying him down to sleep.

“Lars?” he says to him, his voice breaking with deep sleep and hunger pangs. He stirs down by his feet but he never wakes up. Joey lifts himself onto his elbows for a better look at him and his arms out before him. He can make out the sight of the bandage on his one wrist pointed up towards the ceiling. Right there glaring back at him like Medusa's stare.

His body aches all over: even with three blankets covering him, he still shivers with the cold.

Death makes no sound. She is so cold as well. Cold and silent.

And Joey reaches down to shake Lars awake: his left arm quivers from holding up his weight. Lars finally stirs awake and rolls over to look into Joey's soft brown eyes.

“Oh—” he breathes out. “Oh, good morning.”

Breathing hard, Joey leans back onto the bed and lays his arms out from his body. Lars rubs his eyes and rolls over to better face him. The blankets had fallen down his body so as to reveal most of his bare skin to the cold of the bedroom. Lars raises his eyebrows at him, at that silky soft dark skin on his chest and his waist.

“Joey—” he chokes out at the sight before him; that slim smooth waist. He had never seen anything more elegant and delicate looking. “I'm looking at your belly—it's so beautiful. So, so beautiful and slender. Is it alright if I touch you?”

“I guess it won't hurt,” Joey confesses with a clearing of his throat. He closes his eyes and lets Lars runs the tips of his fingers over the skin on his waist. The tips of his fingers feel like the tips of feathers on his skin. Feathers giving him loving soft touches in spite of the painful wounds beneath them.

He then thinks of his parents, how much they've done for him in his life. They've done so much for him, from encouraging his passions for hockey and music to even the mere concept of raising him. Meanwhile, Lars gazes at the wounds on his wrists and he knows he's going to have to explain it to his parents. It was already kind of a bitch to justify and explain the scar on his eye to them; now they're going to have to know what happened to his wrists. Lars rests his hand flat on Joey's lower belly, right over his navel.

Another thing that crosses their minds, almost at the same time, is what are their fans going to think. What will the Metallica family think that one of the band's founders has a cutting problem when they had just shaken off the title of “Alcoholica”? What will the Anthrax family think that their front man is starving himself because he thinks he's ugly and shouldn't be there in the first place? Lars moved mountains for his band as well as the people who love them. Joey's out front because he loves it. They came here for a reason.

They need to be here to see their intent. Lars gazes into Joey's brown eyes, and Joey gazes into Lars' wintry green ones.

It's silent there in the room as Lars examines the shape of Joey's body under the blankets.

“You are a hockey player,” Lars points out, “I am sure you have felt some pretty intense pain like I have on my wrists.”

“I have,” Joey admits as he folds his hands over his chest, “on my legs especially. It's brutal, too. I've gotten ice burns and I've fallen down more times than I can count. There are times I'm surprised I never got like my throat slit or broke my nose—” He sighs through his nose and gazes up at the ceiling.

“You ever get splinters drumming?” Lars asks him. “Like from the sticks?”

“Oh, all the time. You ever pull a muscle in your legs from it?”

“Constantly!”

Joey sighs through his nose again.

“I miss feeling full,” he confesses to him. He runs his fingers down his lower belly. “Like really, _really_ full—you ever eat a fuck ton of food? Like three big ass helpings of sump'n like lasagna or penne?”

“Yes, I have,” Lars replies with a slight smirk on his face. “It's such a sensual feeling, isn't it?”

“All soft and sweet and you're feelin' all snug and warm… my mom makes some of the best pasta ever. Actually makes it, too, from scratch—her, my aunt, and my grandma, all of them.”

“I just think of the toast I had yesterday down in the City. I still feel like you should've had some—even though there is no denying as to how you feel. But… I have faith in you, Joey. Seeing as we are here right now and coming closer to one another tells me that I can trust you.”

“An' I feel the same to you, too—” He lifts himself up onto his elbows, albeit with more shaking and quivering, but he manages to sit upright. He lays his hands in his lap and slouches right there before him. The curls on the sides of his head sprawl down his shoulders and his collar bones. The ends are as dry as bone.

“I don't want to die,” Joey confesses to him, “I want to feel good and healthy.”

“I don't want to be in pain,” Lars says back to him. “I don't want to be left behind.”

“Well, you're right here with me, aren't you?”

“I never left. And you never left, either.”

“I should tell you,” Lars begins again as he extends his legs out before him and over the edge of the bed, “Mrs. Foxworth is going to die.”

Joey gapes at him.

“What!”

“Yes. She has metastatic cancer—I don't even know if she made it through the night like we did.”

“Well—what the fuck, why didn't she tell me that?”

“She told me it is because she feels she is undeserving of your love. An elderly woman potentially on her death bed wanted me to tell you that she sees you as a beautiful boy.”

Joey brings a hand to his face. All this time he had believed that she couldn't stand him. It took her to experience true agony to face the truth, like how it took them to experience agony themselves to face the truth about themselves.

“I have to take a piss,” Lars tells him in a low voice. He climbs off of the bed and clutches at his wrists in pain. They're sore but not as sore as they could be: it was the witch hazel and the application of the gauze that helped him.

 _I don't want to be in pain_ , he tells himself as he pads across the hall to the bathroom.

His body shaking from hunger and self inflicted cold, Joey slides out from the bed and follows him across the hall.

 _I want to feel good again_ , he tells himself as he pads across the hall to the bathroom. Lars is standing before the mirror over the sink, just standing there, gazing at his reflection. Joey stands next to him and they gaze at themselves for a good long minute before one of them speaks again.

“The mirror never lies, Joey,” Lars points out. “The cuts and the scratches—” He stares down at his wounded arms before he folds them across his chest to nurse them.

“And everything else,” Joey follows along as he gazes at his body. “The scars, the starvation—the mirror never lies. The flesh never forgets.”

“It is best if we heal now,” Lars suggests. Joey puts his arm around him and holds him close to his side; the crown of Lars' head reaches Joey's dimpled little chin. Two beautiful boys, beautiful no matter what the cost, and seeing it in each other right there before the mirror and next to each other. They stand there gazing at themselves and all defenses crumble around them. It's all so clear to them now even as they feel each other.

It took them to feel deep pain to find those last little nuggets of strength inside of them.

“Lars?”

“Yes?” He turns his head to look up at Joey.

“Let me take ya home.”

“Only if I get to buy you breakfast.”

“Well, of course!”

* * * *

It had been a week since their encounter there in upstate New York and yet Lars couldn't help but find himself thinking about Joey on this particular afternoon. He hadn't heard a peep from him since then, and he wondered how he was feeling then. His birthday is coming up on the thirteenth after all.

The wounds on his wrists had healed somewhat: the single deep one, the one he inflicted with the kitchen knife, is having a little difficulty healing all the way. It is quite the deep one after all. But at least the pain and the itching stopped: a little application of witch hazel every day seems to be doing the trick. He had to go to great pains to not show the wounds to James and Kirk lest they wonder what happened; perhaps he'll bring it up to them some day, but neither of them seem interested. The two of them would rather grieve over the loss of Cliff.

But the sight of the scar left behind from the one left from the scalpel is obvious. Scars will fade but the flesh will never forget, and neither will the mirror. Hunger will fade but the flesh and the bones will never forget, and neither will the mirror. At least if the two of them slip away from him, he can always return to Joey for kindness.

He picks up the phone and, after a bit of hesitation as he had only gotten Joey's number earlier that summer, dials his number. It rings once. Twice.

“Hello?” His upstate accent is so distinct it's almost cartoonish.

“Hi, Joey.” That Danish accent is unmistakable.

“Oh, hey, Lars! I was just—” He pauses and clears his throat. “—oh, pardon me. Sorry, I just had dinner.”

“You just ate?”

“Yeah, I had dinner at my parents. Been eatin' dinner with them for the past week—this is first night I've been able to drive home afterwards.”

“Oh, really?”

“Oh, yeah—my mom's lasagna,” he tells him. “I feel so much better, too—I actually had to unbutton my pants just now!”

“Don't eat too much,” Lars advises him with a wag of his finger.

“I didn't, surprisingly. An' I won't, either. My mom saw I was hungry an' she told me 'I want you to eat to your heart's desire, baby. But leave enough for your father and me.' An' I was like 'okay, Ma', but she made a big one tonight so—I couldn't help myself.” Joey clears his throat again and Lars can hear a rustling in the background.

“How're your arms doin', by the way?”

“Still a little sore. But they are in fact healing. I just have to keep dressing the wounds, though.”

Joey clears his throat yet again and lowers his voice to a soft whisper.

“You know, I still have moments where I feel like going hungry again.”

“I bet you do. I still feel like inflicting some kind of pain on myself. You know, I feel like I deserve it. Because—you know, I don't really feel like I can discuss anything delicate with James and Kirk. I hope some day we can, though.”

“I bet you do… but remember why we stood in my bathroom for, though. I also should tell you that Mrs. Foxworth is still alive.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, I saw her this morning an' I asked her if she was feelin' alright. She said she is, she's startin' chemo soon… and she also flatout told me I'm a beautiful boy.”

“Aw, that was nice of her.”

“Yeah, I know…” Joey fetches up a sigh and they slip into momentary silence before Lars speaks up again.

“Joey?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“And thank you, Lars.”

“Rub your belly when it's full.”

“I am as we speak. And you nurse any kind of wound you get on yer body.”

“Of course.” And without another word, they hang up at the same time like a mirror image.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"You tell me what people want from me.  
>  Well I'll just be myself:  
> it's the only way I can be but you don't see.  
> You accuse, abuse integrity;  
> you don't know one damn thing about me.  
> Not one damn thing..."_  
> -"Gridlock", Anthrax

**Author's Note:**

> Song list:
> 
> 1\. Until It Sleeps – Metallica  
> 2\. Skinny – Filter  
> 3\. Cemetery Drive – My Chemical Romance  
> 4\. Ana's Song (Open Fire) – Silverchair  
> 5\. xanny – Billie Eilish  
> 6\. I Hate Myself and Want to Die – Nirvana  
> 7\. I Feel the Dark - Opeth  
> 8\. Credit in the Straight World - Hole  
> 9\. Children of the Korn feat. Ice Cube - Korn  
> 10\. Tumble in the Rough - Stone Temple Pilots  
> 11\. Two Drink Minimum – Chris Cornell  
> 12\. Double Crossed – Joey Belladonna  
> 13\. Summertime Sadness – Lana Del Rey  
> 14\. Misery - Green Day  
> 15\. I Caught Myself - Paramore  
> 16\. Apocalypse - Cigarettes After Sex  
> 17\. Rain - Guano Apes  
> 18\. Knife Prty – Deftones  
> 19\. Gridlock - Anthrax  
> 20\. The Mirror Never Lies – Butcher Babies


End file.
